


Blessed

by Carol989



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, Immortality, M/M, Multi, gross stuff, like maggots, mentions of depression, not really major character death, ressurection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 21:36:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4035415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carol989/pseuds/Carol989
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They used to say that resurrection was a Holy deed. A true benediction from God himself. </p>
<p>When Athelstan woke up, he was bagged up, gagging on his own smell and covered with maggots. There was nothing Holy about that. </p>
<p>Neither the next twenty times. Until he met Enjolras.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blessed

They used to say that resurrection was a Holy deed. A true benediction from God himself.

When Athelstan woke up, he was bagged up, gagging on his own smell and covered with maggots. There was nothing Holy about that.

The darkness was too much, still he could feel the vermin crawling against his skin, like the caressing fingers from Death itself. He closed his eyes – made no difference anyway – and tried to muffle his need to throw up.

Athelstan had faced terrible things during his life, but nothing – no war, death threat, torture – could compare to the feeling of not having enough air, space, light, freedom... His whole body was shivering with cold and disgust, pressed down from all sides. Something – a cloth? No, he realized, a _shroud_ – was wrapped around him, trapping his members, squeezing the maggots.

A better man would've kept his calm, made sense of the situation and planned his escape. But Athelstan wasn't one. So he screamed, begged for help, called his God for a guiding light. A signal. When none came, he just cried for anything. Worms fell into his mouth, and while his head throbbed... the air ran thin.

It was a small blessing to suffocate.

Once more, Athelstan woke in a bag, gagging on his own smell and covered with maggots. Except this time, he breathed in and lifted his shaking hands, scrambling the shroud until he managed to get mostly free. Cool dirt poured over his body like Death's last resort to keep him down, and, mentally praying, he stick his fingers in there and digged.

It was pure faith that made him sure he was digging up. And the raw need to live that kept him going for what seemed like hours. His hands were so numb they didn't feel the fresh air of surface, instead he knew he had found salvation when blinding light hit his face.

Athelstan pushed his body out of the dirt, naked, trembling. Fingers skinned dripping with blood. Fresh air burning his lungs. Tears on his cheeks, worms on his thighs.

He chanted thanks to the Lord until his eyesight got used to the daylight and his surroundings were no longer blurred. His attention was caught by a weird form laying near him. Was that...

“Oh.”

A wooden cross. There was no mistake.

Why was there a cross in viking lands? He hadn't made that. Had he dreamed everything? Was he still in England? Had he died in the monastery?

Then it all came back to a single name: Floki. Of course it had been Floki, they were even expecting each other.

He had to find Ragnar. That's the reason the Lord brought him back, to warn Ragnar that Floki was dangerous, to be careful with the raid, something was not right he knew..!

Using the trees as a support, Athelstan got up on his legs, trembling as a newborn deer. And if he had to stop sometimes to throw up bile during his way to Kattegat, nobody had to know.

When he reached the city, there were bigger building... slightly larger streets... the whole place was, somehow, bigger maybe? He was not sure. Maybe his memory was just playing tricks on him, he had, after all, died.

Yet, the off putting feeling churned his guts when the people on the streets looked weirdly at him and Athelstan didn't recognize a single face.

A strong hand gripped his shoulder stopping him from reaching Ragnar and Aslaug's house.

“Where do you think you are going?” asked a bulky Northmen he had never seen before.

“I need to speak with Ragnar.” he croaked. The man seemed confused, maybe he was from another earldom. “ _King_ Ragnar. I need to see him immediately.”

The people around who were listening looked at each other, as if he was speaking another tongue. And no matter how he protested in their language, nothing stopped warriors from covering him with an old ragged cape and pushing him towards Ragnar's house.

For a second, he thought they had understood, however when he was kicked in front of the throne at the feet of an unknown man the illusion of safety wore off. A woman who was not Aslaug and children who weren't neither Ubba or Sigurd sat on their places.

“We found him wandering naked.” informed one of the men.

The warrior on the throne waved his hand, creasing his eyebrows.

“Do you think I have time to take care of every single drunk or crazy man that stumbles on my city?”

Athelstan could almost feel the shame of the men behind him, their fidgeting.

“No, Erik. It's just... he was asking for Ragnar Lothbrok.”

“As I said, I have no time for crazy men. Throw him at the forest or something.”

Athelstan bowed his head.

“I am sorry for the inconvenience... sir. But this is Kattegat is it not?”

Erik sighed, resigning.

“Yes, it is. And who are you that comes annoying my people?”

“Your people?” he almost smiled. “I have been living here for years those are not your people they... They are Ragnar's people.”

The men laughed.

“Is that how they call it from where you came from? You are bit late, wanderer.” Erik sipped his drink. “Those are not my grandfather's people for at least, what, thirty years? More?”

“Your... grandfather's...?” his voice failed. “What about Queen Aslaug? Bjorn? Lagertha, then?”

All around him, people roared with laughter.

“Rollo?”

“Whatever it is you needed with them will have to wait until you reach Valhalla. _If_ you reach it. Now, if you are done, my man will take you out and give you clothes, food and a horse so you can go back to your land and tell your people that here the king is Erik Bjornsson.”

Athelstan felt the floor turn into smoke below his feet, and yet his knees touched it without problem.

“Go, before I lose my patience.”

“If you would allow, sir.” He forced the words out, touching his forehead against the wood. “My land no longer exists. I would like to serve you here, for, as you've seen, I have heard great tales of your lineage and of Kattegat.”

Erik analyzed him for a long time, and Athelstan noticed that yes, he definitely shared Ragnar's blood, they had the same soul-piercing blue eyes. It became painful to look back at him.

“What's your name, again?”

“It's... Erlend, sir.”

“Fitting.” he snorted. “Alright, you can stay, there are never too many swords. Bergir, show him what he needs to know, if he causes any trouble I want him gone before the sunrise or you can cut his head off.” Erik turned his head to another group of men and continued as if he had never entered: “Tonight we discuss the spring raid, there is a new territory Refil think we should try.”

Months passed slowly. They days dragged as Athelstan became Erlend, the crazy new man at the city, that talked to few and were talked by even less. He was known for spending great amounts of time alone, wandering at the beach and in the woods, or asking too much about the legendary King Ragnar Lothbrook, the famous shildmaiden Lagertha and their families.

Erlend didn't look like a happy man. Maybe it was because even looking at Kattegat made his soul cringe at the knowledge that a blond bearded man with a shinning smile would not appear from between the building or on a ship sailing from rich lands.

Not a single familiar face appeared from anywhere.

Yet, he wasn't a dangerous man, was healthy and knew how to hold an axe. So, when King Erik went West, he went along. Another shadow on the multitude of a raid to new lands. A territory next to Frankia, they said, and not near as well guarded. But they didn't expected the fierce warriors that greet them. Ruthless as if they were Northmen themselves, not almost kin to the French and Englishman.

It was a great battle, and even though they won, King Erik and many, many warriors perished. Poor Erlend was one of them. A sword craved in his chest after killing way more soldiers than anyone expected. Who knew there was so much anger in crazy Erlend? Well, he would spend it in Valhalla now. Joined with the legends he admired so much.

Not that anybody said those things. People were busy commemorating, tending the hurt and giving the great King Erik a proper burial. Too busy to notice a body rising from the battlefield at night, scaring the crows and coughing blood.

Nobody asked where crazy Erlend's body was.

He was thankful. The sword in the heart hasn't been exactly planned. Nor was waking up again.

So if the Lord was going to bless him with a new chance – again – he needed to do it properly. He could not stay at Kattegat or the northern lands. There was just... too much there. Of everything. There, he still felt dead. The moment he stood on the new coast, he knew there was no going back.

He stole food from the viking camp and walked away, not looking back once. He was afraid if he did, there would be a smiling blond man waiting for him, and he wasn't sure he could resist that.

Erlend became Conrad, a faithful traveler that tried to live at a monastery once more. He fled in the middle of the night, after dreaming for the fourth time that brutal men would storm into the place, kill everyone and take him to unknown lands and waking up sad that wasn't happening.

Conrad became Fernand, and then Gael, and Edward, and Lazare – seemed proper.

And while traveling through Germany to Frankia and then Italian territory he met Leon, Marceline, Nicholas, Alexander and Helga. At Marceline, it became apparent he had a thing for blond, blue eyed and strong willed people.

At Nicholas, his blessing started to weight his shoulders down when they were condemned for sodomy and he woke up ten days later in a field with his head back on his neck... and Nick didn't.

At Alexander, he started seeing it as punishment when he accidentally got run over by horses and had to dig himself out of a shallow grave again. Only to discover he had been there for seventy years and there was no more Alexander to meet.

He got away from people after that, decided to meet more of the world and passed two hundred years or so traveling. Learned ten new languages, fifty two new cultures and saw the world as beautifully as it could get. Still, those were lonely years, not being able to get older and not wanting to get attached to others that get.

He went to Asia, Arabic lands and in Vienna he finally met Helga.

It was during the Black Plague. He almost laughed because of _course_ it was. However, Lazare had been too busy taking care of Helga, making sure the whole process of getting rotten from inside would be a little less painful for her.

He had no hope.

“Don't cry, dear.” she whispered, her face pale, clammy, flies all around them. “We'll meet again in Heaven. I'll wait for you.”

Oh, he had no hope for a cure neither.

She died that same day, holding his hand weakly, dying people moaning all around as their loved ones cried. Lazare didn't cried anymore, he just crawled against her corpse, covered his face and stayed in silence until the plague took him too.

It didn't take long. Before dying, he heard someone say it was the end of the world. He wished they were right.

“What a fucking surprise!” he woke on a shallow river, healthy and alive. The former-priest punched the rocks at the bottom until his fingers broke, and screamed until his throat was raw.

Maybe God would have mercy on him if he showed penitence. But hadn't he showed it enough? Was it really so grave what he had done to offend the Lord? What, believe in pagan gods for some years and sodomy? He couldn't be the fucking first doing that.

Maybe God just really had something against _him._

For a couple of years, he was nameless. You don't need a name when you won't have someone to remember it. He tried to burn himself, got sick by accident two times and tried drowning too. The first one hurt like a bitch, the other two he had to dig his way up to the surface again and drowning was just terrifying and a complete waste of time. Nothing, absolutely nothing worked.

A couple of years turned out to be more like some centuries. Four maybe, or something. He didn't cared anymore. For him, it was just some kind of sick joke from universe itself, and dammed he would be if accepted god again. He didn't need to believe there was an almighty person that after stripping him from everything multiple times in life still thought he needed to come back again and again and again and again and experience it every-fucking-time.

With a god like that he would gladly jump on the devil's lap.

He went back to France once more, it was different, a couple of shit had happened there – a revolution or something, really, who cares. He started to act as if everything was normal until a certain point, tried to live a normal life, forget the past.

Normal life involved painting, and forgetting was a better way of saying 'being drunk every second he spent awake'.

He didn't even had a name until a guy – Combeferre – asked him while they talked in a tavern. His head was swimming in so much beer he just looked up, saw an 'R' painted across the wall and answered:

“It's Grantaire. My name is Grantaire.”

Combeferre introduced him to Courfeyrac, whom introduced him to Éponine and so on, until out of nowhere he was sitting among students on a political meeting. And when who seemed to be their leader appeared – a gorgeous man with golden locks and sparkling blue eyes –, he almost cried.

He was called Enjolras, Grantaire called him Apollo. He spoke with fire and acted with iron fists. When he walked into a room you could tell, and when he wanted to talk, people would listen. Except Grantaire, maybe if he was an asshole it wouldn't hurt like the other times.

However, things were never like that. His provocation became a game between them, and he was nowhere strong willed enough to stop going to the Musain every week to listen to things he didn't believed in, but _almost_ did thanks to the passion they were spoken of.

During those meetings, Grantaire felt a bit more alive, like yes, maybe the future isn't doomed! And died a bit more because, here we go again, falling in love with the wrong person. It was even more pathetic since the fact that Enjolras seemed to despise him didn't change anything.

Worse was that he was also getting tied up with the rest of the les Amis. They were decent people, and his attraction for Enjolras made him spend time with those students... And with time, comes friendship. Soon like that, Grantaire noticed it was too late to run away.

He tried to kill himself again. Time to restart, he thought. Drank himself to death one night at his house and that was it, someone would find him, burn his body or throw him into some shallow grave at the outskirts of the town and he would wake up twenty or whatever years later.

Just like that: no more les Amis, no more Enjolras.

Except, it didn't work. He woke up still laying on the carpet a week later. The first thing he saw when opened his eyes was a painting he had made before his overdose. There were curls like the sun, sharp cheekbones and eyes that screamed strength.

He burned it.

After five more days, he returned to the Musain, because Jesus fuck was he a weak man. He was late, the reunion had started and he would tiptoe and sit on the back, invisible. It was not his fault that Enjolras just stopped and _looked_ at him. Truly looked at him with something akin to relief, even happiness. Not a single drop of disgust.

Well, of course, everybody followed his gaze and his – there is no more point denying – friends smiled at him, welcoming. With a burning face, Grantaire waved and sat down in silence until the end of the reunion.

When it ended, people started to chat and get up to drink, and Grantaire tried to slip away. He wasn't exactly _needed_ there, anyway.

“Better things to do?” Enjolras asked behind him.

“Oh, you know. Places to be, drinks to drink, paintings to paint.”

“Don't know about the paintings but... we have drinks here.”

Graintaire gave a bitter laugh, because what a day, Enjolras was _trying_!

“Want to get me drunk, Apollo?”

He could feel the blond shuffling, nervous.

“No. Just... spend some more time. You disappeared for two weeks, people were worried.”

“What, did you miss my insightful commentaries?”

“What if I did?”

Well, damn.

“Were _you_ worried about me then, Apollo? I'm flattered.”

“I was. Is... that a problem?”

And if Grantaire still believed in a god, he would ask it to put Enjolras in hell. He had no right to test him like that. Four infernal centuries alone and having a man that had to be some sun deity talk to him as if he cared? That was too much.

He almost wanted to tell Enjolras he had nothing to worry about, it's not like he was going stay dead anyway. Wanted to badly to break the fierce leader's reality telling him everything. Still, even if Enjolras could turn each storm into an opportunity, Grantaire's life was not a political game. It was chaos on earth, and he had been bearing it for a millennium without shattering those he loved. He wouldn't start now.

“Was it because of our discussion? If that's so, I am sorry, R. I said unjust things to you in the heat of the moment.” He hesitated. “Actually, I was going to your house tonight, after the reunion, to apologize.”

Imagine that, Enjolras finding his rotting corpse covered in empty bottles. Would he cry? Would he be disgusted? Would he really care?

Grantaire turned to look at him, a grin on his face.

“Always so righteous.” Very different from Ragnar. The name popped in his mind, covered with dust and unpleasant memories.

“I'm starting to regret talking to you.”

Grantaire snorted, and with Enjolras' answering smile he thanked the darkness that covered his blushed cheeks.

Funny how after having your heart broke almost ten times, falling in love still felt the same.

“I forgive you if you buy me a bottle and let me sketch your face.”

“Aren't you going to apologize too?”

“No.”

Enjolras sighed and they went back inside, Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Marius surrounded him, asking where he had been. And if under the orange light of the Musain his heart warmed up again after decades, nobody seemed to notice. Except Enjolras, who looked at him the whole night and the nights after.

Nothing happened between them, not like what happened with the others before. It was deeper, not just romantic, not just friendship, something far beyond those. There were tender touches, smiles, arguments, fights, silly conversations... Things friends normally do, but not quite that because they weren't friends.

It was like what happened with Ragnar.

Enjolras made him feel a faith long forgotten. Faith in life, that burned low and weak inside him, but still... it was there after such a time. Grantaire started feeling less like a ghost, and breathing became a little easier.

The way he was draw to that man as a moth to the flame was so familiar, he wasn't all that surprised with how it all ended.

He heard Ragnar ended with an axe, like him.

Enjolras ended with a bang.

Seeing him there, covered in blood, sunlight and holding France's flag made the 'Apollo' even fitter. The fire didn't burned in his eyes, it exploded, filled with pride and pure, raw will. Grantaire wished he could paint him and put the picture safe at his house among all the other paintings of him.

When that look locked into him, Grantaire relaxed. He had just saw all his friends dying brutally, soaking the streets with their blood, yet... Yet he never felt better. Safer. Not because he wasn't going to die forever. It wasn't that.

It was almost like he had a soul again.

“Do you permit?”

A nod was all he needed before brushing past the officers to steady himself beside Enjolras. The golden leader held his hand, intertwining their fingers.

“End it with one shot.”

With his free hand, he lifted France's flag, chest puffed with satisfaction.

_Bang_.

Chest open, gushing blood.

They fell back, hands locked. He watched Enjolras face become lifeless while his head rolled back, body wrapped with the flag hanging of the window. Grantaire himself fell at his feet, his breathing became ragged, blood coming from his mouth.

He didn't know it was possible to be terrified and serene at the same time. The sparkle of hope that Enjolras put into him shone brighter, stretching his face into a weak smile.

Oh. So... that was the feeling of being complete again. He had forgotten.

Having all the pieces of your life and soul clicking together, finally.

He wasn't Grantaire anymore, nor Athelstan, or Conrad, Elrend, Gael or Lazare.

His Apollo's eyes closed forever, and so did his.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo, thank you for reading everything! If you like, leave kudos, if you don't, leave kudos. Just kidding, tell me your opinion, leave some advice if you want (English is not my first language after all), anything is welcome. I hope you enjoyed it :)


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